When I was younger I thought going through something rough would be fun, or uplifting somehow. That sounds odd, but it was how everyone portrayed terrible things. You go through this horrid experience, and suddenly you’re a better person. I wanted that; everyone wants to be a better person.Now, though, after all of this, I realized that wasn’t true. Not all the time, at least. Suffering didn’t make a person stronger. It didn’t make character, or mold someone into a better part of themselves.It could—don’t get me wrong, it could. It could make someone see the light, see the world through a clearer vision. It could change everything. It could make people good and courteous, make them spend their lives trying to save others’. Their past could lead them to something brighter in the future, creating the theory that everything happened for a reason. It could make them grateful for their life instead of hateful, scornful, wishing they were never born.But it wasn’t like that for me; I didn’t get better. For me, all pain ever did was hurt.
I am grass. I am dandelions. Explanation: grass grows, and it is punished for it. People hate it and cut it, want to form it into a perfect little patch. And when dandelions grow, people rip them out, calling them weeds over flowers.And I am grass because I was starting to get better. I was starting to grow, and then I got mowed. There is nothing to me now. I am perfect and quiet. I am nice to look at, but I am empty.